


Ill Contrived

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [74]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 713 OV, Archades, Betrayal, Collars, Drugged Sex, Drugs, Established Relationship, F/M, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Partner Swapping, Polyamory, Sharing a Bed, Tea, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-26
Updated: 2009-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 20:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Balthier so easily disarms him, the flicker of his tongue, the bite of his wit. Beside Fran and Basch, the man is proficient and flexible. Alone, Balthier has drawn out of Vossler confessions that no man had heard, not even Basch. The pirate is on guard even in the bedroom, and Vossler knows of no honest way to breach those walls.</cite></p><p>In which Vossler is an honest bastard, and cleans up after his mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ill Contrived

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was originally intended for a Springkink prompt: Vossler/Balthier, Fran/Basch - wife swap - This will surely spice things up.

"How can you taste the food under all this pepper?"

"Archadian food tastes of nothing."

"That I cannot deny, but this can hardly be considered improvement. We are eating pepper with a side of meat!"

Balthier drinks deeply from his wine-glass and nods when Vossler raises the bottle to pour again. He pants with the tip of his tongue extended beyond his lips, scrapes his tongue against the upper edge of his teeth before taking another mouthful. Vossler wants to bite Balthier's mouth, wants the pirate to attack his own with those fine white teeth.

Fran and Basch attend the Emperor's revels. With Rosa sequestered for her first imperial pregnancy, Vossler is on call but off duty. Basch could not be so lucky, but he has more patience than Vossler for the Emperor's whims. It amuses Basch to make the emperor's guests court the ear of a magister with a viera maiden on his arm.

In earlier years, Vossler would have imagined enduring Balthier's company for Basch's sake, for the friendship that formed in the years Vossler and Basch thought each other as dead. Tonight he cannot pretend he seeks an excuse: Balthier so easily disarms him, the flicker of his tongue, the bite of his wit. Beside Fran and Basch, the man is proficient and flexible. Alone, Balthier has drawn out of Vossler confessions that no man had heard, not even Basch. The pirate is on guard even in the bedroom, and Vossler knows of no honest way to breach those walls.

Vossler sips his wine, daring nothing more than nodding as Balthier talks. His own plate is nearly empty, anticipation taking his attention away from such simple concerns. The trays Vossler had ordered are what passes in the Imperial kitchens for Dalmascan fare: thin slices of fiery spiced meat over salad, enough to destroy the taste of any wine, drugged or no-- tonight, at least, will not fall entirely by the pirate's terms.

"Fran would not sit at the table with this," Balthier says, startling Vossler from his reverie.

"I apologise--"

"No, it's... interesting. A unique taste. I mean simply that I have lacked opportunities to gain your tolerance."

Balthier has reached across the table, his grip warm and sure through Vossler's thin sleeves. His smile seems less ambiguous now. "Allow me to offer amends for my rudeness?"

Vossler stands as Balthier does, not wanting to lose the pirate's hold on Vossler's arm. He follows where Balthier leads. Two steps away from the table, Balthier sways on his feet, catching himself on Vossler.

"The wine must have hit me harder than I thought." He turns his head, trying to shake free of the sensations that must already be overrunning him.

"We don't have to--"

"You don't want me to suck your cock? I had rather been looking forward to testing just how far your fondness for this spice extends."

Balthier's camaraderie is a relief and his mouth is as hard as Vossler has hoped. He tastes of pepper and wine and as always, of secrets, no matter how far back Vossler reaches in with his tongue.

\---

Vossler tightens his grip in the short spikes of Balthier's hair, pulling his head back, the other hand dragging the head of his cock over Balthier's flushed lips. The pirate's eyes have come heavy-lidded, for once not watching, not measuring Vossler. He kneels collapsed before Vossler's unlaced shorts, but his mouth opens again at Vossler's urging-- shifting, sucking heat in place of taunts and insinuations.

The heat of his tongue, the tingle of the spice, Vossler could lose himself in using the pirate, like this, close his eyes and hold Balthier's head in place and just fuck his mouth as deeply as Vossler wants. He pushes deeper with each stroke, steady and even, until Balthier's throat seems to open up around his cock. Balthier makes a wet, desperate noise, his hands clutching at Vossler's hips, fingers digging in, and then swallows, his throat constricting and releasing, waves of sensation that go straight to Vossler's balls.

Like this, the pirate even swallows obediently, without complaint. Vossler strokes his palm over Balthier's cheek before releasing him.

But instead of sitting back, Balthier slumps, and slides sideways, bracing himself on the floor with the arm that has not wrapped itself about his abdomen. Vossler cannot see Balthier's face, but his movements are wrong, even for the drug.

Three nights past, the drug had made Vossler feel almost drunk, his skin alive to pleasure and his mind dulled of the shame he should feel when he reached for Basch's body. Basch had called him drunk, but laughing, for the drug had not stolen the quickening of his flesh.

Vossler had measured an identical dose, but Balthier does not look sleek and eager with pleasure, but ashen, his face tight with concentration. With effort, he pushes himself up to sitting, a hand cupping his mouth. He swallows, again and often.

"Are you all ri--?" Vossler begins to ask.

In the next instant, Balthier is retching, violently, thin, pale liquid gushing between his fingers.

Vossler's own stomach lurches in sympathy, as he leaps for the parlour bin, passing it into Balthier's reach.

He reaches a hand to Balthier's shoulder, but the pirate shrugs him away, curling further around the bin. He turns away, so that Vossler hears his churning liquid gagging, but can only see how Balthier's back bows for the successive waves of vomit.

Vossler attacks the mess with the napkins from their dinner trays, the thick linen taking much of the puddle. But, when he is finished, Balthier is still not.

Balthier's forehead feels both chill and moist with sweat; he swats away Vossler's palm. Balthier's cuffs are beyond soiled, pink, but that must be the wine, Halmarut, let it be the wine. He rubs across his mouth before speaking, before raising his mouth to speak.

"Do not--"

Balthier swallows, and swallows his words instead of speaking. Guilt gnaws at Vossler's belly. He had wanted the drug to stop the pirate's words, soothe his worst weapon, but not this. They are both kneeling on the tiled floor, and Vossler's suite has more comforts than this.

"Balthier, the bed--"

Balthier's eyes narrow, liquid streaking his cheeks from the corners of his eyes. "You've had your fun. No more."

"Upon my honour, I will not abuse you further. The drug did not take me so poorly."

"You drugged me?" The bucket trembles in Balthier's grip, sloshes. His skin is pale, his knuckles white and his eyes are dark. "You _drugged_ me! I thought it your barbarian--"

Balthier ducks his head back into the bucket. He is too distracted to shrug away the hand Vossler places on his shoulder, kneading the rock-tense muscles of his neck. Vossler looks away, pretending not to listen, as Balthier retches anew.

Vossler fears that his efforts must be unwelcome, and Balthier is in no position to verbally complain. But he does not shrug away Vossler's kneading fingers. This bout, he has not turned his face away, but merely buried it beneath the bucket's rim.

His retches turn to gags and dry coughs, and then: "What did you give me?"

"Demetrice. It's class IV, minor blackmarket but rarely enforced. Recreational."

"And as a pirate, I must be well-used to all manner of illicit substances. Surprise. I'm rather fond of my mind and therefore lack the inclination to damage it with chemicals. Basch doesn't keep you around for your wits, does he?"

Balthier's voice is a soft rasp, and what is worse, he seems not to care whether the barb stings. Vossler tips Balthier's face up from the bucket, so that Balthier must meet his eyes.

The pirate looks beyond angry now, tired and drawn. He shuts his eyes, once, briefly; Vossler finds his fingers again at Balthier's neck, stroking.

"I have dishonoured myself with this hospitality--"

"Not by the standards of this city," Balthier says, but his voice is cast low, so Vossler continues.

"You cannot walk the palace like this. Allow me to offer my bed. You need rest. I will not disturb you further."

Balthier watches Vossler for long moments. He has not turned aside from Vossler's touch, and so Vossler continues rubbing into the muscles of Balthier's neck and shoulders. He would do more, but he is at a loss what to offer. Perhaps he should offer to seek Fran after he has settled Balthier. Though Vossler fears her curt ill opinion, fears Basch's disappointment, he fears forever meeting Balthier's expectations. It is not easy to meet Balthier's green-gold eyes, surprisingly keen if tinged pink with irritation, but Vossler holds his gaze, waiting. He would make his own amends.

Finally, Balthier nods, slipping his head, his body from Vossler's grasp and pulling himself upright. Vossler follows his lead, surprised when Balthier immediately sways, leaning his weight against Vossler to remain standing. Vossler knows Balthier's strength, has felt it in fisticuffs and on his back, but now Balthier looks a shadow of his usual self. The contrast is unsettling. Vossler wraps an arm behind Balthier's back, taking hold of his far wrist. They take small steps together.

Vossler's bed is not as large as Basch's, the decadence of space for merely two and strong, thick carved bed posts. Vossler leads Balthier to sit.

"Your shirt is soiled."

"Yes, but I will have you note that my trousers are not."

Balthier unbuttons his cuffs, but lets Vossler draw the shirt off from his upraised arms. He buries himself in the sheets and blankets to his chin and curls on his side, arms holding his middle. Vossler feels the other man's forehead, still chilled with sweat, stroking his fingers over Balthier's short hair. Balthier seems to shiver, to tremble, though he doesn't feel cold.

Vossler dims the lights before he takes away the bucket from the salon, and returns with a pot of tea.

"I... think I won't fall for that again, thank you." Balthier has sat up against the headboard, blanket wound over his shoulders. He is still too pale, and the tremors haven't stopped, only have gotten a little less frequent.

"What? No! It's tea. I swear it's only tea."

Vossler pours a cup and drinks-- burning his mouth, crying out, nearly dropping the cup.

Balthier almost smiles.

And that is worth the ache of Vossler's lips and tongue. Vossler blows on the cup to cool it, while Balthier watches him and says nothing at all. He hands the cup to Balthier, who takes it in both hands, breathes in the steam, and blows yet more.

"It's from Basch's store. Something from the Eastern Islands, a warming spice to settle the stomach."

Balthier sips, gingerly, sighs as the hot drink soothes him. Vossler catches himself watching Balthier swallow, the smooth motion of his throat. Balthier raises an eyebrow, but one not two; Vossler walks around the bed to sit on the far side. According to the wall clock, the ball has three hours yet.

Balthier sighs into his teacup and sets it down by the pot. He pulls at the blankets under Vossler, lifting up the edge. Vossler stares.

"No shirt, no shoes, and do stay out of my trousers."

The sheets are cold behind Vossler's back, but Balthier's skin is warm, too warm for the shivers that take him still. Balthier is the taller man, but he curls with his knees bent and his head on Vossler's shoulder.

"We're talking about this again when we're both sober."

"I'm sorry."

"You're an arsehole," Balthier says. "But this is not a new discovery for me."

"Do you--?"

"Shut. Up. I am curiously disinterested in offering you penance right now. I've told you before, Vossler, you ask nicely for discipline. You beg on your knees. You do not fuck me over and then expect me to switch it better. Make up your own damn mind how to make _me_ feel better."

Vossler stays silent. He does not understand why Balthier wants him to stay, but Balthier's arm is as tight over Vossler's chest as Vossler's arm is over his back. The texture of his skin is uneven there, old thick scars that catch on the calluses of Vossler's hands. He rubs slow circles, as Balthier's weight grows heavy, as his breathing evens and his tremors cease.

And then, Vossler simply holds on.

\---

Vossler wakes at the precise click of the door to his bedroom unlocking, blinking against the dull light entering from the salon. Balthier moves, the press of his leg sliding against Vossler's, his head turning towards Vossler's chest.

"We didn't expect you to stay here all night," Basch says.

"--Shh!"

Fran stands beside Basch in the doorway; Fran shakes the mattress as she sits on Balthier's side of the bed, the pale sheath of her dress fanning into splits. She sniffs her partner, sniffs them both, and asks, in the tone Vossler has been expecting: "What happened?"

Balthier sits upright with a jerk. "We're all fine here. Now. Thank you," he says, words spilling out before he could be lucid. "How are you?"

"You smell of vomit, wine and sex," Fran states. "His sex."

"And your breath smells of elderflower aperitif, my dear. We drank rather a lot of wine with dinner, and then I drank him. You know how I get. How was the party, all scintillating conversation and fine dining, I expect?"

"You were missed," Fran says, and then they're clasping hands, staring at each other, just breathing, as though they were alone. Vossler would leave them be, but for Balthier's weight, his heat and Balthier's other hand braced for balance on Vossler's thigh.

"Both of you." Basch has lost his jacket, his shirt-- shed them. Vossler can feel the aura of heat from Basch's bare skin, warm hand cupping Vossler's shoulder.

"Not too much, I hope," Balthier says. "We enjoyed our evening quite thoroughly."

"After the speeches, we snuck out onto one of the hall balconies." Basch's smile is quietly satisfied.

"Where the railings are of a convenient height and strength," Fran adds.

"Offering the citizens a lovely view, I'm sure," Balthier says.

Fran's silk slithers upwards, just as Basch's fingers take the gap between Vossler's collar and his neck, turning him back to meet Basch's mouth. With Basch, at least, Vossler knows his place. This arrangement with the pirates, the ease and accident of its forming, confuses him still, that Vossler could want them this much. Under the blankets, Balthier's fingers grip Vossler's thigh as Fran kisses Balthier. Vossler doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve any of them.

Basch's bed is larger, no more than five minutes' walk, but the distance seems greater when the floor is cold and Vossler's own bed is warmed by four.


End file.
